


Love Poems

by lushthemagicdragon



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale talking dirty, Cunnilingus, M/M, Oral Sex, Other, Poetry, Yes you read that right, gender sure is a concept huh, poetry as dirty talk, putting that angelic mouth to good use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 17:38:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19399096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lushthemagicdragon/pseuds/lushthemagicdragon
Summary: talking dirty was invented by angels, it is the language of love.





	Love Poems

**Author's Note:**

> For gaslightgallows from a great mashed up prompt.

“My beloved is to me a sachet of myrrh that lies between my breasts. My beloved is to me a cluster of henna blossoms in the vineyards of Engedi.” 

Soft, plush lips press against the curling snake in front of Crowley’s ear. Fallible words committed to infallible memory, but no, perhaps the reverse. Their source should burn the demon’s skin but instead they only prick and tingle, raising goosebumps. 

“Behold, you are beautiful, my love; behold, you are beautiful; your eyes are doves.” (1) 

“Angel,” The lover’s breath catches in his throat like the words have hooks, “Bible verses aren’t exactly what I was going for here. Loving the King James though, nice touch, love a crass bible.” 

“Oh hush.” A gentle slap hits the snake’s hip where it juts, all bone and muscle, not an ounce of fat on him. He’s all sharp angles like this, not the strong curves of his more powerful form. Angelic kisses pause only briefly as they trail down jaw to neck, “No I suppose it’s not, though I can’t imagine what you could have meant.” 

“Bollocks, you know exactly what I meant. Don’t play coy with me.” 

“Putting my tongue to good use can mean a wide variety of things Crowley, and I can’t think of any better use than poetry.” Another kiss to Crowley’s neck, another to his shoulder, and Crowley’s body sighs beneath him. 

“Poetry doesn’t _really_ qualify as being filthy though, does it?” 

“I’m an angel, dear. I don’t do filthy.” 

“Yes you do.” 

Aziraphale merely tuts against Crowley’s collarbone, his trail continuing in the dip between his lover’s collar bones, “O you whom I often and silently come where you are that I may be with you,” Skin prickles and lifts, the soft hairs on his chest stand on end, the trail continues. “As I walk by your side or sit near, or remain in the same room with you,” What a useless thing a nipple is to a demon, but it hardens under warm, wet touch, standing to a peak as its owner’s fingers tangle in blond curls. 

“Aziraphale…” 

“Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me.”(2) That extraneous heart beats harder in Crowley’s chest and the sharp edges of his knees jump out to press against the inside of his angel’s thigh. Sock feet trail against the calf like a cat in heat.

“Stop distracting me, please.”

“Distracting _you_?”

“Yes, I’m trying to concentrate.”

Crowley laughs, Aziraphale continues, downward, downward, a vague saunter of kisses against each rib and between them still. “But in my arms till break of day, let the living creature lie. Mortal, guilty, but to me the entirely beautiful.” The body below shivers and shakes, huffs out a laugh and a quip about mortality, ”Soul and body have no bounds: To lovers as they lie upon her tolerant enchanted slope,” The slope of Crowley’s stomach shivers and shakes. The demon tugs on his hair, pushing down to no avail. The saunter is too steadfast in its vaguery. “In their ordinary swoon, grave the vision Venus sends,”

“Venus, really?” 

“Crowley please.”

“Apologies, go on.” 

“Thank you,” The gentle caress of thumbs on hip bones doesn’t tickle; it can’t for them, for beings beyond their physical bodies, though they can try. “Of supernatural sympathy, universal love and hope,” A bruise would blossom in the valley of the snake’s hips if the snake could bruise like a snake can have hips, “While an abstract insight wakes among the glaciers and the rocks the hermit's carnal ecstasy.”(3)

“Carnal ecstasy, that’s definitely one of ours,” Crowley manages to gasp out despite the crane of his neck and the curl of his toes. 

“If you interrupt me one more time, Crowley, so help me--” 

“Sorry--Sorry, please don’t stop.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it dear.” Angelic sincerity can cause the toughest of knots to uncoil from the holiness of its timbre. In Crowley’s case it causes his stomach to tighten, a whimper of a groan eking out from the muscles in his throat. Sincerity and a smile makes him wet between the legs. That smile, that sincerity, continues going down. 

“So fondly I’ll breathe, and so softly I’ll sigh, thou wilt think that some amorous zephyr is nigh,” Tongues are for talking, for eating, for helping the medicine go down. What is poetry if not speaking the tongues of humanity? “Ah! no–as I breathe it, I press thy fair knee.” Soft angel’s lips press music into the nub Crowley has willed there between his legs, and his breath catches again, it whines, it squirms in his voicebox, “And then, thou wilt know that the sigh comes from me.” (4)

Love is warm, it’s wet, it shivers through the bones from toes to scalp and pricks each hair along the way. Love is poetry, linguistics in the veins that pump and rush harder in the crux of it. Aziraphale watches from his perch, the old bird, leaning comfortably against his lover’s thigh as the shakes subside and Crowley laughs, warm, loved. 

”That’s probably the fastest I’ve ever done that”

“I could keep going, if you like. I’ve a whole library you know.“

“ _Please_.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. [Song of Solomon](https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Song+of+Solomon+1&version=ESV), The ol’ Bible.  
> 2\. [O You Whom I Often And Silently Come](https://whitmanarchive.org/published/LG/1891/poems/82), Walt Whitman  
> 3\. [Lullaby](https://genius.com/W-h-auden-lullaby-annotated), W.H. Auden  
> 4\. [To Emma](https://americanliterature.com/author/john-keats/poem/to-emma), John Keats


End file.
